Dear E. Jean: I was driving to my therapist's office to talk about the same man I'd been talking about for five years—my moody, controlling, narcissistic, financially messed-up husband—and my phone rang. It was my spouse. I answered, but instead of him replying, he kept talking about money with some guy.

By the time I pulled into my doctor's parking lot, I realized I was overhearing my husband having sex with a male prostitute. (At first I thought he was buying a new part for his pickup truck!) Before I got out of the car, I texted him: "Look at your phone. See the last time you called me? Realize what you were doing and don't come home."

I'm divorcing him. But moving on from a marriage of 12 years is not easy. I can forgive him the male prostitute (I've forgiven him in the past for the female hookers), but his moodiness and abuse are too much. Talking with my therapist is helping, and I'm trying to stay focused. But I have days when I want to call him to come home. In the past, I always took him back. Help me to not do that this time!—On the Bubble

Bubble, my Begonia: You no doubt took the earliest opportunity to equip yourself with a pair of tongs and perform a sweep of the house to remove every photo, thread of clothing, fraternity paddle, leftover bottle of minoxidil, rotting jockstrap, etc., then drove them to the dump, right?

Good. It's never wise to keep mementos of assholes.

Asshole mementos are like plutonium. Expose them to a moist glance and they spontaneously ignite and cause a woman to set off a sexual chain reaction, generally involving the asshole. Apropos: When you were getting rid of the mementos, please, please tell me you got rid of the liquor in the house. Downing a flute of formaldehyde is less dangerous at this point than a shot of tequila. Even an innocent Sauternes at the end of the day can soften the steel in your backbone and cause you to suddenly say: "What the hell? Why can't I call him?!"

Speaking of which, you've deleted the cad, his friends, siblings, parents, coworkers, and boss from your phone, Facebook, LinkedIn, Gmail, and Skype, correct? (Now now, don't balk. Lovely as some of his friends may be, they're good for nothing at this time but ripping open old wounds. They'll just tell you he's pining, dying, and will plead his stupid case.) As for your own friends, you're keeping someone on 24-hour standby to call in case you weaken, I hope—it's a brilliant move!

Because you're not only the woman who is divorcing the little ball-weed, you're also the woman who wants to take him back. You're composed of many different selves—the needy self; the lonely self; the gritty, shrewd, undaunted self—all competing for control. (As Walt Whitman says, you "contain multitudes.") So let's give the woman who wants to get rid of the man the advantage and kill his calls, his photos, and his Gchats, the better to help you begin a wonderful new life.